


Guard Duty

by Zab43



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hell, M/M, Pre-Canon, Various Demons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zab43/pseuds/Zab43
Summary: Set in the immediate aftermath of the war with heaven the Princes of Hell meet to discuss the future. Outside the Hall their guards stand ready including two who become closer as the talks progress.The course of the debate in Pandemonium’s Hall is borrowed from Paradise Lost - but this is more concerned with the newly created Dukes standing ‘guard’ outside so the arguments inside the hall are simply background.
Relationships: Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Guard Duty

**Author's Note:**

> A possible first meeting for these two.
> 
> Also, I've always thought the idea that the demons don't remember heaven after the fall would leave them in a pretty bad place mentally as their first memories would be of fighting and losing the war. Poor things, they deserve something nice.

'Duke'. It sounded impressive and he supposed it was in a way. The lower orders were plain demons, then came demons of dishonour, then Barons, Viscounts etc & etc on upwards to Dukes and Lords and finally the Princes, including The Prince himself. The ranks were newly assigned, gained by merit not by God’s decree.

Yet even at the high rank of Duke his duty was simply to stand guard outside the great hall at the high capital of Pandemonium while others debated inside. He was not allowed in despite his title. It was, he supposed, a minor thing. He was, after all, Hastur Duke of Hell, and had been chosen for the role of Satan's own guard.

In reality the position was ceremonial. Satan needed no guard. None amongst the Princes would dispute his right of leadership. Even if they did He hardly needed a Duke to defend him. It was still a great honour to stand as guard to the arch-fiend.

Inside the hall Satan sat on his throne of state, raised by merit to hold dominion over Hell. He debated with his peers to agree between them what course of action would now be best to pursue.

The reality of defeat in the great war, the glorious rebellion quashed, was difficult to come to terms with. However, there was no more time for lamentation. The question was: what now?

Satan had still not given heaven up for lost, that much was clear from his opening speech. It was evident he did not want to admit their defeat. Beelzebub gave her agreement and the debate was then opened up for the other Princes to speak.

Prince Moloc came first and he urged further and immediate open war. Hell flames and fury, storming heaven's gates. If not to victory then at least a spectacular end. Better that than permanent banishment to suffering in Hell. The others in his camp added their own commentary in support of his plea.

These speeches were given on the first day of the conclave. Rumour of the substance spread and Hastur thought the call to arms was sure to be heeded. He readied himself mentally for another assault on heaven.

He remembered the previous battle that had raged for three days and nights. Although the memories of heaven were gouged from them, torn away with the last of their grace, they all remembered the war. If Her purpose in purging their minds of heavenly grace was to kill all hope and secure their abject defeat then it had backfired.

Vivid and bright their newly formed first experiences were now all of blood and conflict. Of ignominious defeat. Of their casting down to the fiery prison that now they reluctantly inhabited. Of thwarted ambition and trauma deeply embedded. 

The demons' new demeanours were shaped through this dire suffering. No remembrance of heaven's kindly aspect to salve their vitriol. Creatures of hate, forged in fire, untempered by banishment and pain. Searing resentment and a burning desire for revenge were their only preoccupations.

Hastur even more so than others. His experiences were of the front line. Beating and biting, fighting for his very existence. Limbs torn from bodies and bloody mess all around him. He had thrice suffered dire injuries that would have destroyed a lesser being. He was strong and vicious. If all had fought like him then surely victory would have been assured?

He looked around at the other guards, for there were others. The self-styled Princes of Hell had all appointed their own. Hastur, tall and thin with blank, black eyes was of the most feared. His fathomless eyes, his calm and still demeanour, seemed to signify a lack of emotion, but in fact belied the simmering hate within. It was fitting that he was guard to Satan himself. He regarded the others with barely suppressed contempt.

Yes, he viewed the others with contempt. Weaklings all. Their lacklustre, frightened forays paled in comparison with his brave assaults. His reckless bravado, his cruel and visceral destruction of his opponents. Few others could match his impassioned hate and desire for blood.

Few others. He did admit that a few others of equal merit had existed. Eyeing the assembled guards warily, for even if the war was over who knew what new foes may arise, he espied one he recognised from the battle.

It had been the third day when he had first seen this comrade in arms. He was shorter, darker, more compact and more muscled than himself. However, in desire for wanton destruction and gory onslaught they were equally matched. He watched his dark compatriot tear through the angels, creating a whirlwind of death around him.

Spurred on by the sight, and not wanting to be outdone in valour, Hastur had launched his own attack. He in turn tore through the angelic lines leaving a swathe of destruction behind him. His foray was, however, ill judged and left him deep behind the enemy's lines. The serried ranks of the heavenly host were starting to close behind him. Alone and rapidly surrounded his fate was certain to be sealed. To death, albeit glorious, he thus resigned himself, unafraid.

Into the ever narrowing gap another rebel pushed a path. Hastur recognised the fierce fighter of earlier. The very same being that had inspired his near fatal attack. Hastur fought his way towards this familiar face until together they had stood, back to back, surrounded by enemies, both determined to make the best of their end.

At first the surrounding angels were wary. The two were blood drenched horrors, bristling with angry passion. They hardly dared approach. The impasse however, only lasted a brief moment before the onslaught began. Blades flew through the air, claws and teeth, rending flesh, tearing apart the attacking host. All of a sudden the ranks before them gave way and they found themselves again in front of the enemy line. They had escaped from the trap, but at what cost?

Hastur was worst injured. Bleeding and weakened, yet still thirsty for more. He knew the damage was severe, fighting on would likely end him, but he'd rather end it now than live defeated.

His comrade in arms, his saviour, was injured too but with the same steely determination in his eyes. It was at this point that Hastur had noticed those eyes. They were glowing a bright red, but as they focused on him they changed to a deep blue. He was attempting to drag Hastur to the healing station against his will, against his need for death or glory. No gentle care and tender healing for him, he wanted to fight, be it to his own demise.

Cutting through the pain and through the anger came a new feeling. A curious fascination, a desire to see more of those eyes. Also a desire to acquiesce, to submit to the other's attempts to save him. Hastur wouldn't go as far as to say he surrendered to the other's will, but something happened that made him stop struggling and allow himself to be taken for the healer's care.

This fierce comrade was the other he recognised now. He had never learned his name. The injuries had overcome him. It was many hours before he'd awoken again, healed from the worst of his hurt. Of course he immediately jumped up to rejoin the battle, but by then things were nearly over.

He hadn't seen the other again. The fall, the burning, the chains and fire and pain, constant pain, had overtaken everything. Now the smoke had died, the stink of burning flesh dispersed, the new occupants of Hell ensconced, now he saw his compatriot again. The brave and powerful warrior was standing guard outside the Hall like him. A Duke then, but of whose camp?

The two observed each other from a distance. Both had distrust in their countenance, neither knew who the other represented. Were they brethren or potential foes? At the end of the first day they made their separate departure.

The second day opened with Belial's speech. He was against the course of open war. He pointed out their previous suffering, the injuries sustained in heat of battle followed by tempestuous falling through fire. The chains that first bound them on fiery lake from which they were but recently escaped. Was not Hell itself a refuge compared to this?

Maybe in time things would improve further. Perhaps redemption and forgiveness would follow. They should stay quiet and not pursue further war in vain. Heaven was not perhaps forever beyond their reach. Belial’s supporters loudly voiced their agreement to the course of quiet acceptance in hope of future absolution.

There was then a break while the disputants considered this view. Hastur let his gaze wander over the other guards stood outside. Seemingly casual he did in fact have a particular purpose. He looked for his fellow fighter, the one who had pulled him back, carried him to the healing station, saved him. However, he could not see him.

From a dark shaded space, under an overhang of sickly sulphurous rock, came a sound. Hastur spun round, poised for attack. It was the one he'd been seeking. The short dark demon he remembered as his brother combatant. However, the war was over, new alliances were being forged, new allegiances existed and neither knew to whom the other's loyalty belonged.

"What you doing?" Hastur's tone was sharp, full of challenge. "Lurking" the other answered with a single word, watching the other warily. The two glared without a break, without a smile, each taking the measure of the other. After a time Hastur broke the stand-off. "I'm here for Satan, to whom do you owe fealty?"

It was a fair question and the other answered unhesitatingly "Beelzebub, who is Lord and second to Satan, is my charge. Not that I think she really needs me!" His eyes changed colour again and Hastur felt a tightening in his chest.

Those eyes reminded him of something, some feeling that he'd had before but since lost. Something of heaven and of light. He couldn't quite remember, but he knew he wanted to look into those eyes forever, watching them dance and change, the colours swirl like newly created nebula.

"Beelzebub? I'm for Satan" Hastur said this with no small measure of pride. He represented the dominant force, the leader of this new Hell. He was also pleased to hear the other was of Beelzebub's camp. The Prince was loyal to Satan, that fact was well known. He still watched the other carefully.

"Satan. That's impressive. I remember you from the battle. You fought valiantly". Hastur preened. Flattery was a thing he usually distrusted but in this case it was given by an equal so carried proper weight. "As did you" he rumbled in return. The other nodded in acknowledgement.

That was all they needed, the rest was understood. The pain and injuries, how close the other was to death, how desperate the situation, how devastating the defeat. None of this needed to be spoken. They looked into each other's eyes and knew what passed through the other's memory. It did not require explanation.

"I'm Ligur" offered the dark demon, not making a move toward his comrade. "Hastur" said he. They kept each other in close observation for the rest of the day. Neither approaching the other. No further words passing between them.

In the afternoon Mammon spoke. He had no time for hope of redemption. Forgiven and returned to servitude in heaven? Never. Such course would taste more bitter than defeat.

However, he again shunned open war. Hell, he argued, should be made their own. By such hard work and cunning endeavours may not they make it their version of heaven? The suffering in this fiery hole, meant as punishment, turned to their reward?

In short the newly cast out demons should make the best of what they had and by seeming enjoyment of their new confines confound She who tried to punish them. Again his supporters spoke in furtherance of this course.

Hastur was however confused by this speech. It sounded like surrender. They deserved better than the dust and ashes that surrounded them. Had they not been angels? Why should they settle for this miserable, desolate hole? They deserved more, they deserved the highest, the best, the most exalted position. Not some gloomy sulphurous pit.

At the end of the day he prepared to accompany his master back to his camp. It was then that he noted the other watching him carefully. On seeing he was observed Ligur asked "what do you think Hastur?"

Hastur was startled by the question. He frowned, immediately distrustful of the other's motives in asking so brazenly for his opinion. Seeing only genuine curiosity he was torn. He wanted so much to talk, to share his thoughts, but could he trust him? He made a low growling sound while he considered his reply.

"Dunt see why we should settle to stay in Hell Ligur, do you?" His tone was confrontational, his gaze challenging. However, as he looked into those colourful eyes something gave inside and he smiled, almost against his own will.

The other answered "yeah, I know what ya mean, but are we ready for another war?" At the word 'war' his eyes went a bright and brilliant red, like fresh blood pulsing from a wound. Then they dulled, first to a darker red and then to that same rich blue he remembered from the battle. Hastur watched enthralled.

Unbeknownst to Hastur, while his thoughts were distracted by Ligur's colourful eyes, Ligur himself was half hypnotised by his dark ones. Like falling into an abyss, like diving into deep water, like being lost in the uncharted depths of space. That was how Ligur felt when gazing into those black eyes. Adrift and uncertain, lost but at the same time found. He wanted to keep staring forever, never look away.

"If another war comes I'll be ready" Hastur answered stoically, but with an edge of weariness to his brave words. He wasn't sure he would be ready, if he could endure another conflict like the last, but he didn't want to appear weak in front of the other.

"So too will I" Ligur answered, a determined look in his now glowing eyes. The two warriors stared at each other, both strong and prideful, neither wanting to admit their inner wish for peace. Then Ligur muttered quietly "but I am tired" and let his gaze fall to the ground.

Hastur replied quietly "as too am I" letting his own gaze also fall to the floor. He was startled to feel his hand gripped briefly. The fleeting contact sent thrills up his arm and made him flush. 

He was frightened for the first time he could remember. The prospect of death in battle had not scared him, but the brief touch quickly withdrawn made him fear. His dread was that this contact may never be repeated, that he may never feel the other take his hand like that again.

Hastur looked up just as Ligur did the same. They locked eyes, one colourful and glowing, one fathomless and dark. It only lasted seconds but felt like an eternity. Neither wanted to be the first to look away. However, the Princes were clearing the hall, their guards had to follow.

Ligur looked away first as the buzzing of Beelzebub's flies called him. Hastur watched his retreating form. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he wanted it to happen again.

Satan had listened to the speeches of the Princes and the arguments of each faction. Whilst they had talked and talked he had sat silent. On the third day he spoke. He acknowledged the consensus was against open war. He agreed a new assault immediately would be the wrong course.

Anxiously listening to his speech the guards outside sighed in relief. None were really ready for more war. Battle wearied and tired of pain and death they longed for space and time to heal. However, all were loyal and if their masters had ordered war then they would willingly have pursued it.

The rest of the speech concerned some new creation of Hers. Some new special creatures on whom they could more safely avenge themselves. Hastur and Ligur cared little for these machinations. They were simply glad that no further war was sought.

The memory of comrades lost, of suffering and injury, of being surrounded by death and hurt and still fighting on. Fighting without hope, knowing all was lost but too proud to admit defeat. Desperately flinging too tired bodies into the heart of the battle with violent fury. The passion only more inflamed by the knowledge they were pursuing a lost cause. If they died fighting at least they wouldn't live to see defeat.

However, now the heat of conflict had cooled, the desire for a glorious death had also waned. None had an appetite for further loss. All had witnessed comrades, brave companions, one moment fighting alongside them, the next devastated by some holy weapon. So many of their valiant rebellion cut down before their eyes. It was too soon to reopen raw wounds that had barely closed.

The plan took shape inside high Pandemonium's great hall. The protagonists talked for hours. Outside the guards had relaxed. The Princes were in agreement. The threat of civil war was lifted from Hell. As too the threat of further war on heaven.

Despite their pride and brave façades none of the Dukes could quite disguise their relief at the prospect of peace. Or, if not exactly peace, a cold war without the heat of direct conflict. With the threat of renewed carnage lifted they almost smiled.

One had a flask of strong and bitter spirits. It was passed among them. Not that they trusted each other, not that they were celebrating the newly forged peace. No, it was more a shared acknowledgement of the lost, the injured, the damaged. All felt the same sense of loss, the same sadness. That they now had a reprieve from further war was a welcome thing.

Hastur and Ligur drank with the others. Each silently toasted the ones they'd lost and swore they would avenge them, but not today, not yet. Heaven would be bought to account in the end, but for now they had space and time to breathe in peace.

After the flask had passed around most of the Dukes dispersed. Hastur stood steadfast at the door. He didn't expect to be called, in fact he would be surprised if Satan even remembered him. However, his duty was to remain and so he remained.

Ligur did likewise, although for a slightly different reason. He knew Beelzebub had no further need for her ceremonial guard, so he stayed for Hastur alone. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, comrades again. Hastur smiled slightly, leaning into the other, so they were pressed close. It felt as if they belonged together, then and now and forever.


End file.
